


Sillage

by HiddenEye



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Universe - 1980s, Anxiety Attacks, Call Me By Your Name AU, Denial, Eventual Smut, Fluff, M/M, Mutual Pining, Veteran Shiro (Voltron)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-14
Updated: 2018-10-25
Packaged: 2019-06-27 08:43:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 16,203
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15681942
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HiddenEye/pseuds/HiddenEye
Summary: Summer of 1986, 6 weeks, June until August.That’s the expected time Keith will be sharing his house with this new student of his dad’s, the same student who’ll be walking around with papers, holding onto one of their mugs, and would probably enjoy the summer like Keith would’ve, should’ve.Summer of 1986, third week of June, is when Keith meets Takashi Shirogane, and wants to punt him in the head for having white hair.





	1. Week 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, I am yet again attempting to make another multi chapter fic after many failed ones. Please pray I’d actually finish this, I am genuinely interested in making this into a full fledge fic despite my terrible short attention span that led me to one-shots only.
> 
> Anyhow, CMBYN AU!!! I gotta tell ya, there are times when it screams of sheith and I couldn’t help myself with this. I really like the soft aura happening in the timeline and how the movie goes, although the book was extremely passionate in the horny sense.
> 
> Take heed of the tags though, there would be a chance I’ll add a few things as the story comtinues to flow.
> 
> Enjoy!

_June 1986._

 

“He looks cute.”

It’s always been warm at their place, hot whenever the sun feels a bit bold — but it’s at their warmest whenever summer comes crawling in. The wind does little to soothe the careful press of heat against his skin, bright rays lighting up the little hairs from where Keith crosses his arms against the window sill to peer down at their new guest.

He, their guest, is greeted enthusiastically by his father — because old man Kogane’s been talking about him ever since news has gone through that he’ll be helping out at the old bungalow during the whole while of summer, and he keeps going on and on about how this Shirogane has the passion of a raging bull to take apart and stick their work back into place by applying his glue of determination.

He’s different, his father would simply say — but there’s a twinkle in his look that makes Keith stare him down. He’s different, his father continues as he ignores Keith, because he actually has his thoughts figured out, and he looks forward to experience them in person instead of just through the many thesis Shirogane sent to him about Plato and Dante, and other figures of interest months prior to his arrival.

Which would either mean he has similar views as Keith’s father that results an in-depth discussion of their preferred topic, or it’s because Shirogane’s managed to get under Heath Kogane’s skin by having those ‘thoughts’, the same ones that tickle him under the elbow or such until they’re forced to smooth it out with a bit of gentle banter.

Gentle banter; hours of comparing their notes inside Heath’s study until Keith’s forced to knock loudly on the door and waltz in without waiting for an answer. Heath has his eyes lit up whenever he sees the jug of corn juice Keith’s brought on the tray, and whomever the intern is would just drop the topic when a glass of fresh homemade juice is pushed into their hands. It’s a routine Keith has been going through for most of his life; the moment his mother left for a work that requires her full attention for five whole years, Keith’s the one who would check if they exceeded their four-hour quota and bring in the refreshments.

“Don’t let him overwork himself,” she says, brushing the hair away from his face. The light colour of her eyes is soothing as he finds himself nodding to her words, and her palm holds his cheek as she bends down a bit to kiss his forehead. “I’ll be back.”

Now, Keith crosses his bare ankles against one another, watching the grin on his father’s face when he pulls their guest into a hug, thumping his back with a firm palm that causes Shirogane to respond with a short, tired laugh.

“Six weeks, yeah?” Allura continues, having her eyes trained on the both of them like he has, the wind’s invisible fingers carding through her silver hair gently. “The usual?”

Keith gives a noncommittal hum just as the back of the car pops open under Heath’s fingers, waving away Shirogane’s insistent protests of him getting his own luggage before pointing to the seats.

Shirogane’s exhausted enough to not argue as he shoots out an apologetic smile, and then he’s opening the back door to get his backpack.

The driver of the car waves at Heath with a lively greeting of his own, where he’s shaking the man’s hand while they talk for a bit more, and Keith recognises the fine hairs of the driver’s arm alight under the sun as the familiar New Zealanders’ accent filters out from the window.

Keith reminds himself to ask Coran if he needs help sending the car for painting, because he can see scratches by the door after driving back and forth down the dusty road. Maybe he’ll find a colour for the bike he’s been working on too.

“Are you going to be friends with this one?”

He shrugs lightly — maybe or maybe not. Keith lets his eyes shift to the maze that stretches far and wide in front of him. He can see the waves of heat rolling down the sandy roads even if the leaves and stalk sway under the touch of evening breeze, the sinking sun engulfs the lands and hills with its orange blanket until it looks as if the intent is to set it on fire. They’re striking on days when he hasn’t had his head far into books he picks up from his father’s library, considering everything and nothing at once, where he lounges back on the couch and lets his mind slugger back.

Or he’ll be at the garage, finally starting on the bike he bought from his neighbour’s hands down the five-minute drive road, all the parts he bought from the town after that laid out on the table.

He’ll be long gone before he ever sees the patch of cornfield in front of their house being burned and cut until there’s nothing left of the measly amount — that is, if someone decides to buy this patch of land, or his future generation wants to sell it, or even if Mother Nature decides to wipe them all off. There’s no way of knowing. Time glides as seemingly as a rolled up paper, and it drags along the scattering destruction left by men for it to stick and pile on until Earth’s nothing but a dumpster by the curb of the universe.

Or, time finds a way to be sentient and sinks its claws deeper into the mounting landfill of Earth’s filth and swallows the whole thing down the black passway of the unknown.

“Depends on how bearable he is,” he replies, lifting his head when a flock of birds squawk past, squinting through his hair. “If he’s a jackass like the last one, then I’m not interested.”

His name is called from downstairs. Both of them look over their shoulders and towards the opened door. “The last one made the mistake of thinking you were interested in him,” Allura says when the sound of footsteps busies themselves about on the ground floor. She peeks at him over the slender arch of her shoulder, the perfect face of a friend who’s seen and known too much of his life. “I didn’t think you were in the beginning.”

“I didn’t, he kept insisting he thought he did,” he pushes himself off the window with his elbows and straightens his spine. His hand finds itself in his hair before he’s giving it a tussle to shake off the lazy hum that settles on his skin. “Dad gave him the hint for me and he backed off.”

“Did he apologise?”

“Nope,” he crosses over the room and makes his way out. He hears the scruff of shoes before she’s following him across the hallway. “Which makes him a jackass.”

“I knew James was brash in his own way, but I never thought he’d be downright disrespectful.” The huff of breath she makes shows how offended she is. “You didn’t tell me this.”

“He was disrespectful the moment he entered the house.” Keith says as they descend down the stairs. “The haircut gave it away.”

”Associating the joyous blue rat tail with the inhumanity of a person is wrong. If he’s gross, then he’s gross.”

He’s onto the second flight of stairs when he sees the door being left open, but the screen is closed, and Keith quickens his steps down when he hears clinking glasses and murmuring voices from the kitchen. He skips the last two steps by taking hold the knob of the railing and jumping down, blatantly ignores Allura’s scoff when he notices a bulky duffel bag lying haphazardly on his favourite single-seater as he passes by the living room.

He wrinkles his nose, and makes himself known by simply sidestepping the people leaning against the breakfast island and makes a beeline towards the fridge.

“This would be Keith,” there’s this unmistakable wry undertone in his father’s voice when Keith pulls the handle, bending down to stick his head inside the chilly space. “And Allura. She’s a friend of his, comes along sometimes with their other friends when they feel like makin’ my house a teenager’s port.”

Keith reaches out and takes a small glass bottle of sparkling juice while Allura exchanges polite pleasantries with Shirogane. He twists the cap open and uses the heel of his foot to shut the door close. Raising the bottle towards the three other people in the room, he makes sure his voice switches into the garbled tone of a local who’s swallowing the spit of his words. “Howdy.”

Shirogane, while having dark smudges under his eyes, manages a smile that looks almost painful to keep up for a first-time basis kind of introduction, even if he does look briefly amused. He raises his own glass of plain water near his temple. “Howdy.”

“Why don’t you show Shiro to his room,” Keith hides his triumphant smile by taking a sip of his drink, meeting Heath’s exasperated look as the strawberry taste prickles against his tongue. “His bag’s in the livin’ room from where I left it, would be nice for this tired lad to have some rest.”

 _Shiro_. Keith let his eyebrows twitch up, intrigued by the lack of full name, and Heath’s only response is a half shrug that looks as if he’s mimicking Keith’s earlier one; dismissive and yet not. _I don’t know either_ , is the answer, _let him do what he wants._

“Am I really that obvious?” Shiro chuckles briefly, and he probably would have rubbed his nape with his hand if it isn’t holding onto his glass.

Keith’s seen pictures of him, of course, known how life hasn’t been exactly kind to the man when his arm’s been opt out as a sacrificial lamb, spitting bullets with other unfortunate people throughout the last of his teenage years. His profile says he’s been serving for three years from the age of eighteen before he decided he wants to do something else. He enrolls himself under Dr. Kogane’s faculty, shoots through his studies without much difficulty as he learns and discusses and excels, until he finds himself in the same home Keith currently stands in to work beside Heath four years later.

The stump hides itself from view in the rolled up sleeve of the white shirt he wears, away from prying eyes despite the gaping space by his side. Keith takes a swing of his drink as he passes by him.

“Guess I should take my leave then, my father’s expecting me in the evening,” Allura says, and Keith almost chokes on his water when she yanks the back of his shirt to plant a messy kiss onto his cheek with a loud _muah!_ , before waving goodbye to Heath with a grin on her face. “I’ll tell him you said hi.”

“Thanks, doll.” Heath calls out when she pushes the screen open. “Tell your dad I said thanks for Coran.”

“Sure thing.”

She gives one last wave as the screen shuts close, and Keith makes a contorted face at her that she immediately replies with an uglier one of her own. With a final roll of her eyes, she turns around and jogs towards her baby pink Audi while digging into her jeans pockets for her keys.

Keith can hear the faint whistle from Shiro as he turns to the living room for the duffel bag, the sound of Allura’s engine purring into life drifts to where they are. “That’s her car?”

“Yep,” Heath agrees as they watch her drive away, and Keith grabs onto the strap before hefting the bag onto his shoulder, grunting from the weight. “Got it last year for her seventeenth birthday. Keith and the rest of their friends would give excuses to ride it within the first week.”

“I would too, if I was honest,” Shiro agrees, and Keith walks past him and begins his track up the stairs. “Been saving for one since I was a kid. I think I managed a couple of hundreds in my old lunch box back at home. Up until I was nine, I think.”

“As a kid, you must’ve been rich.”

Shiro grins. “I was already thinking of a second car then.”

Heath laughs, giving another thump on his shoulder before he takes his leave. “Go rest. You’ve had a long day.”

“You have no idea.” Keith hears how Shiro’s climbing the stairs behind him, a yawn emphasising his point.

Keith takes a right as he bypasses his own room and goes straight to the one beside the bathroom, pushing the door open with a hand. Huffing his bangs away from his eyes, he says, “You’ll be staying here, there’s a changing room over there,” he drops the bag beside the desk while Shiro throws himself on the bed face first, shamelessly letting out a tired groan. “And if it’s not any problem for you, we’ll be sharing a bathroom.”

“This feels so good,” Shiro muffles out through his pillow, snaking his hand under it to cushion his head more. “I’m taking a nap. If there’s anything, just tell me.” He pauses long enough for it to be called hesitation, and adds an afterthought, “Please.”

Keith stares pointedly at sandal-covered feet hanging at the edge of the bed, hands hanging uselessly by his sides now that he isn’t holding onto anything.

Every other person he’s made acquaintance with would have the decency to look at his face when addressing him in his house; or at least, tries to. Shyness and being awkward is something he’s able to handle by carefully ignoring the stutters or word lost by initiating the conversation first — it sends the message that he’s not being bothered by them in general unless he tells them so. It would be the modern way of trying preserve one’s dignity, and he thinks he has enough practice ever since Heath decided to take people in years ago.

Keith knows how to handle the self-assured too; they’re easy to entertain, has the confidence of someone who knows how they’re going to handle their life and is already on track with their plan. He doesn’t mind talking to them sometimes, since they each have a different story to tell that Keith likes to hear. They’re more interesting than when he has to retell the story of how the town they’re in used to be a wasteland for corpses; it’s the war, see, and Keith knows the crimes that had been committed in the shadows, and how he’s able to remember every single spot like the back of his hand.

 _This_ , however, is blatant dismissal. Keith’s being shooed away by a man in billowy white shirt who has tanned hands and feet, having the nerve to sport a stark white haircut that looked almost too genuine to be dyed.

When he takes a peek at the bleached roots of his guest’s hair, Keith realise he has a problem with this.

Shiro doesn’t wait for his answer with how he’s already breathing deeply on the bed, lost to the realm of living as if the Fates decided to cut his thread of conscience. Keith sighs as he combs his fingers against his scalp, turning away from the sleeping body and using their adjacent bathroom to get to his own room.

The urge to slam his door looks tempting enough when he clutches onto the doorknob, staring at the brass globe with pursed lips. Instead, he firmly pushes it shut that Shiro’s light snores get cut off.

He decides not to stay in his room, not when he knows there’s another person taking residence on the other side of the door. The feeling of something not settling right under his skin makes him grab his Walkman from his bed and shoots out of his room, leaving the tight air behind as he jogs down the stairs in hopes to shake it off.

“You could’ve been nicer.”

Keith looks up from where he’s fiddling with the small device, earphones draped around his neck as he drops to the last step.

Heath has his reading glasses on the bridge of his nose with files in hand as he stands at the doorway to the living room, and he’s looking at Keith as if he caught him swallowing down pickles down his throat again after getting them with the coupons from the market downtown.

In Keith’s defense, they’re hot pickles. He loves the deep rooted satisfaction oozing into his body when he sucks the excess sauce from his fingers, lazing on his chair with whatever soap drama on the television to pass the day.

And Keith answers the scrutiny with the same loose shrug. “Maybe.”

“You could’ve,” Heath grunts, leaning against the frame with his arms crossed against his chest. Keith pats him sympathetically on the bicep when he walks by. “I know him enough to say that he’s decent.”

“You said the same thing about James, and look what he thought he was entitled to do,” Keith grabs the sparkling juice he left on the island. “And I’ll be the judge of how this one really is.”

“Just be nice.”

“If I have to kick his ass, then I will kick his ass, Pa.”

Heath sighs through his nose as Keith props himself up on one of the stools, taking a gulp of his drink as he chooses a song with quick, frequent presses of the button. “We’re havin’ chicken wings for tonight, and some fried rice and salad to go with that. How’s that sound?”

Keith hums. “Hot sauce or honey based?”

“Who the hell eats honey based chicken wings with fried rice?” Heath snorts, shaking his head before he tosses his files onto the antique cabinet under the stairs. “We’re goin’ spicy tonight, boy, so move and get the goods out.”

Personal music will be ditched, then. Keith shoves the Walkman in his back pocket after he slides off the stool, and reaches up to the cabinets to take out the required bottles of spices and herbs. “Think I should call him down when we’re done?”

“He’s asleep?”

“Like a log.”

A stream of water rushes out when Heath twists the knob of the faucet, where they hit against the pink flesh of those chicken wings he’s already brought out from the fridge. “If he doesn’t wake up, we’ll save some for him later.”

“Can’t promise anything.” Keith quips, and he gets a spray of water for that.

 

* * *

 

As it turns out, he’s able to hear Shiro walking about in the next room by dawn, just before the morning sun stretches out to greet everyone for the day, and Keith’s half-way into his jogging shoes from where he’s sitting on the edge of the bed.

He freezes, carefully listening to the thud of padded footsteps on the other side of the bathroom door. There’s this careful way of him doing it, as if he does try to be quiet as a mouse in order to not wake the others up. He moves from the closet to the bed, then to the closet again, before his bathroom door opens and shuts and he’s fiddling inside there too.

The moment water’s being coughed out of the shower head, Keith slips into the rest of his jogging shoes and grabs his Walkman before he’s sprinting down the stairs using his toes.

He releases a breath, switches on some David Bowie, and unlocks the front door before he’s pushing himself into the outside air. He uses the same track he’s been using for a long while and starts ambling around the cornfield with the morning air stinging up his nose.

The song changes into something upbeat before he quickens his steps, his feet guiding him out of the tiny road in between the fields to burst his way into the forest. It’s cooler there, and Keith lets a small smile etch up his lips as he leaves his unease back at home. Music, his oldest and dearest friend, accompanies him throughout the way.

It’s when he gets back an hour later with the sun showing its face, a quarter of it spent overlooking the forest and the whole of his family’s land from the top of a hill he likes to call his, that he smells breakfast wafting out from the kitchen just as he was about to reach the door.

“Dad?” The screen easily falls open under his touch, and Keith walks inside with his Walkman clutched in his sweaty hand. “You’re awake?”

“No.”

Smirking, Keith deposits his Walkman and headphones on top of the cabinet before heading his way to the kitchen. Then, he grabs onto the doorframe, bodily facing the stove and the person manning it. “Thace.”

“Keith,” a hand cracks two eggs into a bowl. “The new kid is coming today, right?”

“Came yesterday, actually,” this morning’s mood dampens a bit under the mention of Shiro, but Keith shakes it off by grabbing the large bottle of orange juice from fridge. “He’s not down yet?”

“No?” Thace whisks the eggs after adding in some milk, salt and pepper, and small pieces of sliced cheese. “Why, is he awake?”

“He was when I was about to leave,” Keith pulls the cabinet door to bring glasses down. “Weird.”

“Maybe he slept in,” the smell of eggs sizzling in the pan makes his stomach rumble as he pours some juice.

There’s a minute creak that’s almost too faint to catch coming from the front, but it’s enough for Keith to peek out to see who it is at the front. The door closes when he lets go, and Shiro’s walking towards his way in steady steps.

The man is wearing his black shorts, a grey t-shirt that’s enough to cover his stump with his shades on top of his head. He’s also sweating, pulling onto the collar of his shirt until his abdomen is exposed to swipe at his forehead, leaving the shirt darker than before as shoes squeaks on the wooden floor. Keith clicks his tongue against the roof of his mouth, forcefully meeting his eyes. “Where have you been?”

“Around,” Shiro says vaguely, pausing when he sees Thace turning around to look at him. Immediately, he offers the older man a smile. “Hello.”

“Shirogane, right?” Thace gruffs, Keith prevents himself from rolling his eyes as he brings the tray of glasses towards the back, with a table and a half dozen chairs or so are shaded by the canopy of trees, and immediately, the chill morning breeze hits his face as the greens and branches surrounding their backyard makes everything slightly cooler.

First stage of interrogation. His mother’s brother would have continued to follow her in helping out in the service, but she’s adamant in telling him, _commanding_ him, to stay because of one failed lung. Another attack in the middle of his work, he has told Keith, not just once but a lot more than it should, and he’s forced to rest until he’s well enough to focus properly or he’ll be passing out.

For now, Thace comes over in his pickup truck and makes breakfast every other week or brings over some groceries to be cooked. If there are new students coming over, he’ll just chat with them. Because it calms him, he says, and Heath isn’t one to stop him if he can get some extra hands around the house. Why would you even have a bungalow when it’s only the three of you, Thace asks the first time he came. So that people who would drop a surprise visit would have rooms, Heath bites back.

“—three years actually,” Shiro says with a plate of bacon in hand, Thace directly behind him. “Decided I wanted to stop after that.”

“Because of the arm?”

He laughs shortly. “Yeah, because of the arm.”

Thace sizes him up with a once over. “Just the arm?”

“Maybe I don’t like hearing the sound of anything remotely the same as fireworks after that,” Shiro sits right next to Keith’s usual spot, and Keith tries not to stare at the stump beside him. “Or the smell of diesel. But, it’s mostly because my parents had wanted me to get into university.”

“What did they say about it?”

“About the university?”

“The arm.”

“You should hear how many times you asked ‘bout his arm,” Heath saves Shiro from answering as he steps out of the house, fresh out of the shower. “I kept a tally, if you wanna know.”

“I’m trying to empathetic, Heath. It’s like losing a lung.”

Keith scrapes some scrambled eggs into his plate. “That joke is getting old.”

There’s a small grunt as Thace reaches over to pluck a few strips of bacon and brought them to him. “Your mum appreciates it.”

“She laughed about it the first time,” Heath accepts the plate of stacked bread given by Shiro. “after that she told you to shut up.”

“None of you deserve me.” Thace does this sound that’s almost similar to a sigh, and Heath laughs at his face as he butters his bread.

“Maybe,” he points the slathered butter knife at his brother-in-law, as if to make a point. “but you come here more than you stay at your own house.”

Thace brings the glass to his lips in order to hide a smile. “I may need to do something about my place to make it more lively. Repaint the living room and kitchen, redecorate, or something.”

“Or somethin’,” Heath says through a full mouth, eyebrow jumping up. “Didn’t you just repaint them last summer?”

“Only the bedrooms.”

Heath nods in contemplation, swallowing his food down. “Of course.” Almost an afterthought later, he snaps his eyes towards Keith, who has been using his fork to scoop up his eggs into his mouth, and slows down slightly under his father’s intent look. “Why don’t you show Shiro around, Keith? Get him sightseein’.” Then, he gives Shiro a half smile. “We don’t have to work immediately today, you can stroll around and have a look at the translator downtown. Nice fella, doesn’t bite unless you poke em’.”

It seems it would come to this, as it always has been. It’s routine by then, Keith knows how protocol works whenever they have guests over for the summer, and it’s basically a normal thing for Keith to offer up a chance to see the town with them as their personal tour guide — it isn’t, however, to have his father hinting it, who is still staring at him as if Keith has anything to do with how oranges turn sour overtime or how the hills are actually giants in disguise.

Keith stares back, jaw working on chewing the last bits of food he has in his mouth. Irritation itches underneath his skin when he _has_ already thought of doing the same thing Heath suddenly asks of him. He never does that, telling him the obvious, so why is he suddenly talking in that tone as if Keith hasn’t done this in his life? Is Heath afraid Keith is going to refuse their new guest and make him waddle around blindly if he ever needed anything? To let someone else’s sins clog up the airway to get to know another person’s character?

It shouldn’t make him so prickly as it is, Heath is probably making sure Keith doesn’t sway under the residuals of James’ fuckery that threatens to get into his head. Keith tries not to be insulted his father would even think him like that, but he knows better; James doesn’t control how he should behave, and Heath is only like this because he genuinely likes his students working with him in a pleasant air, sullying it up would only bring out the mustiness of the old bungalow back out.

Keith likes seeing his father happy. Krolia’s absence makes him more invested in work than he should, and these internships take his mind off her for a little while if he isn’t visiting his old fireman buddies at the pub.

“Sure,” Keith says, because he wants minimum fussing if he can help it. He takes another bite of his eggs, prying himself away from Heath to give Shiro a glance. “You think you’re up for it when we’re done with breakfast?”

“It shouldn’t be a problem,” Shiro answers with a shoulder bunched up. He uses his fork to stab into his eggs, a small piece of bacon, and a half cut of cherry tomato as the stopper to his pile. “We can leave immediately if you want? I don’t mind.”

“Nah, I feel like showering first,” Keith watches, enticed, as Shiro shoves all of that into his mouth. Keith focuses on shaking some salt onto his sliced tomatoes when Shiro’s about to face him. “And then, we can go.”

Shiro nods, swiping the corner of his mouth with his thumb. “Sure thing.”

They finish off with washed dishes and lets them dry off by the rack beside the sink. By then, Shiro has been shooed off by Heath when he tries to help, telling him to go shower first while Keith does all the work — which is fine, Keith is already used to this. Their home is large enough that sometimes they have to call over a couple of cleaning ladies to dust the ceilings and wipe the windows, but his family carry their own weight around the house, have so for a long time, and the normality of it calms him most of the time.

Keith snaps a band around his hair as he makes his way up, and the feeling of being in a too large house suddenly swamps him while the flight of stairs stretches high to the second floor. _Oh no_ , he sighs, standing there for a second as the heavy feeling wafts arounds him. He focuses his wavering attention onto the stairs instead, hoping it will make his mind sit down tight.

They’re a lovely colour of rich brown, as if cut and made by the oldest tree, done by an experienced hand, before smoothing the nicks and pricks over. Old fashioned stairs that thuds every time someone climbs up or down, and it has saved Keith many times when he hears his parents walk up the second floor when its way past his bedtime. Because younger him likes staring at the stars when he doesn’t get to sleep, and he could go hours just sitting on the chair and admire them from his room.

He blinks, and the world blinks with him. The only way to overcome this is when he moves, and so he does, putting one foot forward after another before he finds himself walking up again. He does this until he lands on the top, clear windows exposing him to the stretch of maze before it reaches to the forest, and at last, the red and brown hills.

The morning light shines through and reaches over to where he stands, rooted to the spot, unable to move while the world streams around him on their own record. He has his hand on the railing, thumb pressing in, the walls and floors thin enough he’s able to hear the muted clatter downstairs as his father and uncle’s laughter transits in between their conversation. There’s an airy sort of feeling shifting above his arms, and Keith knows it doesn’t really go away unless he does something of it.

His father calls it anxiety, Keith calls it manic dissociation. His heart doesn’t pound like the name would imply, but there’s a press in his sternum that makes him breathe a bit heavier, to force him to stop from doing anything and inhale a second longer than one should. It usually happens when he suddenly finds himself alone, perched in the middle of an empty big area, and no one within range.

It’s good that no one sees him like this; Heath caught him more than once, one of them is when he has been twelve and clutching the door knob to his room until his fingers turn white. It’s a little few days after they find out Krolia is about to leave, and the episodes happen when he least expects it.

Keith blinks again, invisible threads sticking onto his lids with dumbbells weighing down his shoulders, and he still finds himself suspended in thick air. He moves then, putting one foot and another, before he commands himself to twist open his door knob and pushing it close again. In there, his windows are wide open, the sketchbook he left on the table bares its white page, and the steady press on his chest loosens a bit at the familiarity. He exhales deeply through his lips, and runs his fingers through his thick hair.

The shower runs relentlessly from behind the bathroom door as Keith sticks his head out of the window to let the sun shine brightly on him; he tilts his head, closes his eyes, and soaks in the calm mid-morning air.

There’s a loud squeak that makes Keith snap his head towards the bathroom door, followed by rustling, and the shut of another door that shudders his own room.

Keith presses his tongue against the top row of his teeth, dropping his head that he finds himself looking at doodles of his friends’ faces, all smiling widely and mischievously as if they could really see him being ‘Keith-ly Dramatic’.

“You would think he’s one of those great guys,” he says, letting a finger loop around them in a circle, clustering them all into one space. “Because he has one arm, been in the army, and—“

He snaps his mouth shut, snorting lightly as he pushes himself away from the table and grabs the towel hanging on the hook of his closet door, slinging it onto his shoulder before he makes his way into wet bathroom with a slam.

Once Keith scrubs the sweat away from his face, he goes down with a fresh pair of shorts and shirt, his sunglasses hanging onto the front of his collar, hair wet and sticking on his nape while Shiro silently follows him from behind. There’s a whistle and Keith lifts his head just in time to catch the car keys Heath throws at him, saying, “Try not to run over some cows on the way there.”

Keith brings the keys in front of his face and gives a wince. “Can’t I have the pickup?”

“Beetle,” Heath jabs a thumb over his shoulder, eyes knowing. “Go.”

Keith squints at him for a moment, but shrugs it off and gives him a small salute. He hears the way Shiro mutters a greeting to Heath before they’re tracking through the living room, and then the sun room with windows stretching across one side of the room with paintings hanging on the walls, passing by the grand piano standing proudly in the middle of the clearing, before they find themselves out through the side door.

Sneakers slapped onto the foyer tiles as Keith makes a right turn, and parked underneath the shade, is a 1968 black Beetle sitting quietly from the harsh rays of the sun. To his surprise, there’s a shine to it Keith doesn’t know it existed, polished and cleaned from the last time he saw it in its patchy form of rust, with new tires that look like they have not been slashed with a knife. The plate number stays the same, and Keith swears he’s able to see his reflection on that as well.

“Huh,” he says, feeling mildly astonished, and Shiro comes standing next to him.

“What?” Shiro lets his eyes flit over the car, trying to find a fault he hasn’t had the chance to see.

“I didn’t realise Beetle had a makeover, looks nice,” Keith runs a hand over the hood of the car and traces over one of the side mirrors. He clutches the keys in his hand, and can’t help the bounce in his step when he pulls the door to slip in. “Holy shit, even the seats are new.”

Keith lets his hand touch the steering wheel with new found love, appreciating how the brown leather of its seats is accented from the white ceiling, devoid of any dark fingerprints and clean as a new car. His fingers run down the door, over the seatbelt and the neat seam of stitches at the sides, before they stray near the lever connected to the door. He grips it and twists it around, relishing the use of less arm power than the last time he drove with the Beetle — the window rolls smoothly down without having the need to lean his weight onto it.

He lets the lever go, sinking into his seat with the corner of his mouth twitching up.

And jumps at the small _thump_ Shiro makes when he plants his palm on the roof of the car, leaning in through the window. “We’re ready?”

Sometimes, Keith gets too excited on some things, and his focus narrows it down until he forgets that he has an audience watching whatever it is he’s doing. And now, Shiro still hasn’t made any move to get in the car, allowing Keith to see the top part of his shirt left unbuttoned with his aviators perched on the crown of his head, and the gleaming steel of his eyes is enough to tell Keith he’s enjoying watching him subconsciously coo over the prettied up car far too much.

Keith makes his eyebrows arch up to cover his embarrassment, and the smile on Shiro’s face stretches wider. “Yeah, we’re ready.”

“Cool,” Shiro steps away and walks over to the other side, sliding into the front seat beside Keith before tossing his backpack near his feet.

 _Cool_ , Shiro says. Keith twists the key and the engine purrs to life. _Cool_ , Keith still hears as they amble down the road on their Saturday afternoon; shades up to protect them against the sun, windows down, and the summer heat smoothly rolling into what little space they’ve been squeezed into because Shiro is much larger than Keith thought. His head almost touches the ceiling, the slope of his shoulders occupies most of the seat as he slumps back.

 _Cool_ , echoes in his ears, and Keith has all but tighten his grip onto the wheel while Shiro looks out of the window, his position hardly shifting while they pass by the old buildings that stand to three floors at most, before having the full view of the famous fountain at the roundabout. It’s the pearl of their historical town, sculptures of people raising their hands to the heavens as streams of water fall languidly into those palms. Their eyes look as if they’ve just fluttered them closed, their mouths slightly apart in a form of silent prayer.

It shouldn’t tick him off so much, Keith thinks, hearing the word _cool_ from Shiro. It’s just a word that he has heard on a daily basis from his friends, commonly used in a tone of excitement whenever they were thinking of doing something to get rid of their boredom.

Like the time Keith and the boys when buck naked into Allura’s pool with a floater each, shouting _cool_ at the size of their cannonballs, or when all of them were playing badminton with a string and a couple of sticks in front of his house for the shuttlecock to sail over. You guys wanna play badminton at my place, he would ask earlier that day. _Cool_ , they would say, and then they would make the loser buy them all ice cream.

It’s condescending. The mere context of how ‘cool’ is uttered with his lips makes Keith want to scoff — _cool_ , Shiro says before he jumps into the car with Keith, as if he hasn’t humiliated him with that smile and that cocky posture over his car.

Keith rolls into a parking spot in front of the Garrett’s Café, switching off the engine. “The translator’s over there,” he lets his arm swing over the seat to point at the small bookstore just at the other side of the road, and Shiro mimics his position. “We can have a look and walk around after that, if you want? You’ll get the full tour if we go by foot.”

Tourists are out and about at this time of the day, many in groups walking down and up the pavement with their little fanny packs and bottled drinks. Some move in couples here and there, having their hats on and maps thrown open as their mutter over their next route for the day.

Keith’s able to see people strolling into the bookstore through the transparent windows, already clogging up the pathway to the counter as the translator laughs at whatever joke she’s exchanging with the cashier.

Shiro gives him a quick grin then; all teeth, the blue lenses of his aviators gleaning playfully. “Let’s go.”

He rolls his window up, slings his backpack at the crooked part of his elbow, and reaches for the door.

Keith blinks at his back for a moment, and wills himself to take a quiet breath before he follows shortly after.

It’s when he lets the heavy air of the bookstore settle above his shoulders that he realises this has been a bad idea. The heat isn’t making the situation any more bearable than it already is, how he has to withstand the pressed bodies against him as chatter fills up the place.

When he finally passes through, Shiro’s already at the counter and charming his way through with smiles. Olia, who’s looking at the papers with an interest Keith usually sees whenever she and Heath get together, is nodding to the notes and texts Shiro points to with educational comments.

They don’t seem to notice the crowd by then, far too invested in their work that it’s easy for Keith to slip back into the crowd. They’re fine on their own, and Keith is content on waiting outside, standing just a little ways from the tourists as he slips his hands into his pockets.

The neon pink crop top one of the girls wore catches his attention. He’s seen the way how they look at Shiro, these people, seen how their eyes follow the man crossing the road with his backpack slung over his shoulder and has a gait in his step. It’s the way he carries himself, a tilt back of his shoulders that has confidence and assurance screaming out in block letters. It’s the sun catching the sharp angle of his jaw and the pale shine of his hair, it’s the way his arm isn’t where it should be.

He’s almost an attention seeker, almost as if he wants people to come up to him and say a thing or two about his appearance. Only he doesn’t do it on purpose. Shiro just walks around like any other person would while turning blind eye at the stares he gets from people around him. He could be used to it, forced to brush off the unease that would sure come with it, and live his life the way he wants it to be.

It’s admirable. Having yourself put under a microscopic view isn’t something Keith would want, and yet, Shiro troughs through whether or not he wants to.

“Where to next?”

Shiro’s shoving his folded papers into his bag, having little regards of the crinkle it makes or how it bends under the force. Keith shrugs. “Anywhere you want.”

“Yeah? Anywhere I want?”

“Anywhere.”

Shiro snaps his head up to look at him, and the mirth in him never really left. “Sounds like an adventure.”

“Mm-hm,” Keith pulls out his hands, and looks for the familiar bright yellow food cart. “Do you wanna try some corn flavoured ice shavings? Freshly squeezed, on the house.”

Shiro laughs, gesturing towards the streets of the town. “Lead the way.”


	2. Week 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You mix up two completely different things together because it’s fun?” Shiro asks with faint disbelief.
> 
> “Once you know the original sequence at the back of your hand, why not?” Keith shoots back.
> 
> Shiro pauses, looking at Keith as if he’s realising something he crossed, before he puts the pencil behind his ear.
> 
> “Can you mix Beethoven, though?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was supposed to be posted weeks ago, but I finally have the time to do it now. Enjoy!

_June 1986_

 

“I’m starting to think it’s fake.”

“You haven’t seen it to say it’s fake,” Keith says in a drawl, shades on, head tilted to the sky from where he lays on the bench. It’s a nice day. There are clouds to cover the sun’s searing streaks, and before that he manages to consume a huge meal of breakfast Allura’s cook whips out for him and his friends. “His roots are even white. So, it’s definitely real.”

“Well, you haven’t let us meet him properly, how were we supposed to know,” Lance gripes from the pool, hair splattered wet to his skull. “I saw him cycling around town the other day on one of your bikes. He looked like he was in a hurry so Hunk and I didn’t have the chance to call out to him.”

Keith raises his head to peer at him through his nose. “Were you slacking off work again?”

“Excuse you, it was lunch hour for us after the crowd left,” Lance scoffs, flicking water at Keith, who raises his legs to his chest just in time to avoid the splatter plopping on the end of the bench. “And Mrs. Garrett didn’t mind us hanging around when there weren’t that much customers at the café, so long we work when they decided to come in.”

As if called, Hunk emerges from the surface of the pool from beside Lance, gasping lightly for air. He shakes his head to get rid of water, hair slapping his face, and Lance lets out shouts of protests as he covers his own face with his hands.

From his place, Keith can’t help but appreciate the way his friend swipes a hand over the top of his head, pushing his wet hair away from his face that allows the sun shine onto the browns of Hunk’s eyes. They’re kind, playful at the moment when Lance swipes a wave of water towards him that he retaliates with a bigger one of his own.

When Keith first met Hunk, it’s the first day of fourth grade. It’s their second class of the day and Keith finds himself sitting near the window, admiring this fight between a sparrow and a crow near the roots of the large tree outside his class. He’s silently cheering for the way the sparrow digs its claws into the crow's eye —causing a nearby cleaner to whip his head towards their way as a loud squawk pierces through the air— when the empty chair beside him is being dragged back.

When he glances to his new neighbour, it’s to see this boy with a yellow headband around his forehead while wearing a brown t-shirt of a Ghostbusters logo glaring back at him with its bright reds and whites. The newcomer puts his books on the desk, turns towards Keith, and gives him the biggest smile that has ever been aimed to him in terms of introduction.

He has the prettiest eyes, is what Keith thinks as the boy speaks.

“I’m Hunk.”

Keith remembers greeting this boy, this Hunk, with a small wave before their teacher puts a piece of paper each on their tables, giving them instructions for the day. He picks up his pencil, thinks on how to start his sentence, before Hunk nudges his side with his elbow. “Hey,” he says.

Keith blinks up through his hair. “Hey.”

“Do you like Milky Way or Reese’s more?” Hunk asks.

A vision of last year’s birthday cake flashes in his mind. “Reese’s.”

“Cool, cool,” Hunk’s jotting down before he lifts his head again. “Cranberry topping or blueberry?”

“Blueberry.” Keith pinches the corner of his mouth, seeing Hunk’s neat handwriting of ‘He has a particular taste for blueberry toppings’ on his paper while Keith thinks something of his own. “Do you,” he draws out the word, mind racing. “Like cars or bikes?”

“Well,” Hunk taps the back of his pencil at his chin, thoughtful. “Cars, I think. They’re sturdier, and I feel at least a lil’ safe whenever I get inside because I wouldn’t be flying off my vehicle if I get myself in an accident. Plus, my dad has been working on cars since I was a baby so, I know a lot more about cars than I know about bikes.”

“Cool, cool,” Keith says, causing Hunk to grin again. It’s glaring, really, in a really cute way that makes Keith slide his fingers across the pencil from one end to another. “I like bikes, just so you know. My mum has this really cool bike at home whenever she and my dad go out on dates. Sometimes, she lets me ride on with her too, if we’re buying breakfast out and like to surprise my dad whenever he oversleeps.”

Both he and Hunk become very fast friends after that. Turns out Hunk had a few classes with both Lance and Allura, with Pidge coming in the picture a few months later when she’s been pushed to a couple grades forward.

Now, Keith’s watching the way Hunk laughs while Lance sputters, before Hunk nears himself towards the edge of the pool to cross his arms on the ledge. His toned arms bulge beautifully, and he rests his chin onto the back of his hands with that familiar tilt of his lips as he meets Keith’s look. “So, when are we gonna officially meet this guy?”

Keith slumps back onto his chair so that he’s facing the sun again. “Probably never.”

“Friday,” Allura says, walking out through the sliding doors with a small basket in hand, the robe she wears above her swimsuit flutters with every step as she walks towards Keith’s direction. Pidge is not far behind her, holding onto a bag of cotton balls and a bottle of nail polish remover  in hand while she pops gum with her teeth. “Lance, your family is holding out the normal barbecue, right? You can ask Shiro to come along too if your mum’s okay with it.”

Lance snaps his fingers, eyes brightening with the idea. “Yeah, yeah. You’re right, Allura. And yes, we can definitely ask Shiro to come to our party and introduce himself officially to the whole group.”

“He’ll get to meet new people.” Hunk adds, and the smile on his face suggests he’s enjoying seeing Keith trying to not grind his teeth together at their unwelcomed suggestions.

Keith glares at her as she and Pidge settles on the same bench beside him, spreading their goods on the surface. “Why?”

“You’re just greedy,” Pidge says, pushing through the contents of the basket that the sound of glass hitting against glass comes from it. When he takes a peek, he realises they’ve brought down a whole basket of nail polish with a variety of colours. “Wanting the dude to yourself.”

“I do not.”

“Shiro’s pretty— oh, fuck,” Allura pulls out one red blood coloured nail polish from the basket, and frowns at the crack it sports along the length of the bottle as the contents leak through, letting a slow draw of red seep out and drip onto her thigh.

“Shiro’s pretty?” Lance asks, a tight smile on his face.

Keith snorts lightly just as Allura clicks her tongue at the mess, grabbing a cotton ball to wipe the spot off her leg before pressing it against the bottle. “He’s pretty handsome, in general. Good-looking for Keith’s standards.”

That makes him sit up, folding his legs together as he faces both of them with his hands on his knees. “Are you saying I have unrealistically high standards in my taste for people?”

“Men, specifically,” Pidge answers for her, pulling the rubber tie from his wrist as Allura takes more cotton balls to stop the leaking, and then, Pidge is tying it around the nail polish bottle quickly. “You’re okay with any generic pretty girl.”

“Acxa wasn’t any generic pretty girl,” Lance pipes up, following Hunk’s position by resting his arms on the edge of the pool as well. “She was hot, still is.”

Keith slowly turns his head towards their way, expression blank. “We broke it off after six months of dating.”

“I know, but that’s your problem. What I’m saying is you always have high standards in people, and if you say Shiro is hot, well,” Lance shrugs, before he’s smacking his lips together at Keith’s direction that has Hunk snorting out a burst of laughter.

Keith doesn’t how he got himself in this kind of situation when he just wanted to relax by the pool. He’s been promised a good day but that isn’t going to happen, not when his friends know he has a college student staying in his house for most of the summer. “I didn’t _say_ he was hot, Allura did.”

“ _I_ didn’t say he was hot, I said he looked pretty handsome in his own way,” Allura jabbed the air in front of her, at his direction. “But, he is also your type.”

Keith shakes his head, reaching forward and pluck out one of the small bottles randomly from the many that cluster themselves in the basket, and finds himself holding onto a very dark purple that’s almost blue. It’s almost the same colour as the skies whenever the clock strikes twelve, just when he’s about to sleep at night, with stars painted on the dark canvas like all those Van Gogh’s paintings you see on the walls of government clinics. Dark Indigo, the tag says as he brushes his thumb over it, feeling the slight bump of the letters underneath his touch.

He twirls the bottle around with his fingers, before passing it to Allura. “This would look good on you.”

“I know, that’s why I bought it,” Allura says, but she lights up a bit as she takes it from him, using her other hand to scourge through her stash for another. “Anyway, you’re the one who likes to check out your dad’s students, even though they’re older than you.”

“Maybe, Keith just has a taste for older guys,” Hunk voices out, pushing himself back to waddle to the middle of the pool. He tips himself back, and floats on the water with his arms and legs spread out to his sides with the resemblance of a starfish. “Or maybe Shiro really is hot as he says he is.”

Keith lets out a huff of breath. “I didn’t _say_ —“

“Oh, you did,” Pidge grins as he aims his glare at her. “Or you wouldn’t defend yourself so much.”

“Of course I’m going to defend myself from slander, since you’re being a bunch of jackasses who can’t keep your dicks from pushing into my business,” he hurls a stained red cotton ball at her way, causing her to cackle as she easily avoids it by leaning to the side. “And he’s kinda _eh_.”

“Is it because of his hair?” Allura asks, pulling out a neon pink nail polish to go with her purple. When she looks at him, Keith assumes she’s wearing the same expression during the time he insults the blue rat tail on the day they have to greet Shiro.

Allura herself dyes her hair; it looks good on her, the white colour has a shine in it that everytime she’s under the sun, it gleams. It’s easy for them to find her whenever they’re in a crowded area, and she has a tendency to add some glitter whenever they have a party to go to — girls would flock and sigh over her hair, hands hovering near but in no place to touch the silver curls.

Someone once commented that Allura could pass off as a walking disco ball; maybe she would look it up and start working for money like everyone else, the idiot added. When she tells him to fuck off, the dude merely says it again and tugs onto a strand of hair with his thumb and forefinger, complaining loudly when some of the glitter sticks on his hand. At that point, Keith is already refilling his soda as he watches the way she whirls around to aim a sharp smile at the boy who dared touched her hair.

Keith never forgot how loud the crack of knuckles against another human jaw can be until then, where the boy went flying across the room before he crashes into a couple of chairs that broke under the force of his weight. Howls and cheers erupted around them as the boy pushes himself up with his hand pressed near his mouth, swearing up a storm before he stomps out of the party with another couple of his friends scampering after him.

She got grounded the next day; for a week, with her car confiscated. But it was worth it, she says once she finds herself with them again, exactly seven days later, car keys swinging around her finger.

“No, it’s not because of his hair,” Keith says, leaning back against the incline of his chair with his arms crossed behind his head. “It’s just him, in general.” _His ability to humiliate someone without saying a word or more. His stupid cocky smile with his stupid cocky posture over the car. The newly refurbished car, to be exact._

“Oh, so, it’s _just_ because of him? Not anything else?” Lance flicks water near his feet again, and Keith wiggles his toes this time as a response.

“Exactly.”

“That’s bullshit.” Lance snorted. “ _You_ don’t like people because they’re like that ‘in general’? You’re more specific than that.”

Keith shoots him a grin, showing Lance a row of his pearly whites, before he drops it like coal and slumps back.

There’s another splash, like someone just pulled themselves out of the pool and is probably making their way to where he’s sitting then. Keith lets out a small sigh when a figure looms over his head and blocks the sun, speckles of water dripping onto his chest that has him dragging his eyes up with his mouth opening to cuss out at Lance, only to be surprised when he sees Hunk is smiling down at him.

It’s the kind of smiles you see on a KISS poster in the middle of the day when there aren’t any shadows to obscure most of the white body paint and thick eyeliner; Keith should’ve known Hunk is capable of such blasphemy but it still makes him internally wince.

And Keith sighs again, louder this time. “Hunk, please, don’t—“

He lets out a yelp when Hunk grabs him by the wrists while Lance’s climbing out of the pool to take his ankles, and Keith swears loudly as he tries to scramble free from their binding grip, tugging and kicking them away. But, they’ve already locked their hold on him firmly, bringing him to the edge of the pool before they start swinging him.

“One!” Hunk exclaims.

“Two!” Lance adds gleefully.

Keith snarls at them. “Don’t you _fuckin’_ dare—“

“Three!”

When Keith hits the water, it’s sideways, it slaps hard against his flesh and skin, and it hurts before he sinks down like a boulder.

He resurfaces with a gasp, pushing his sunglasses on the top of his head as he splutters violently, dragging his hands down his face to get rid of excess water while his friends hoots at his demise.

“Buncha assholes,” Keith groans, spitting out some water from his mouth.

“Oh, his accent came out,” Pidge already has a bag of sour cream chips open on her lap, a bowl of salsa near her thigh as she scoops the topping with the miniature yellow triangle. “He must’ve be _really_ angry.”

She unapologetically crunches onto the chip as Keith swims to the side, both Hunk and Lance running towards the girls as they laugh and hide behind their benches while peering at him mischievously. Keith snorts, folding his arms on the edge of the pool as a warm feeling spreads across his chest at the sight of his friends crowding against one spot — smiling, having fun, even if they’re making fun of him.

He wasn’t going to allow anything get in the way of this; this is what he has been cupping near his heart since the first time they’ve all met, having a great time with each other’s company alone even if all they did was finishing up homework.

This is what he would treasure for the whole of his life even if they have gone at their separate ways. There probably would a time when he looks back at this particular day, at this particular moment, and think, “Oh, this is the time when they threw me into Allura’s pool and laughed at me.” and he would join his ghost’s jest of his memories with a slightly wrinkled smile of his own. They’re gems, all these memories are, and he’s going to keep them properly until he feels like going through them again.

He lets his fingers drum against the surface, the slight breeze blowing softly against his wet hair. “Hey, Pidge. You think I can catch one of that with my mouth if you throw it at me?”

She takes one out of the bag. “What if it falls into the pool and gets soggy?”

He cocks up an eyebrow. “You think I can’t catch it?”

She shrugs. “Eh.”

 

* * *

 

When Keith parks the Beetle under the shade, it’s already afternoon, a little past one at least, and the weather serves to be hotter than it has since this morning.

Reaching for his backpack at the backseat, Keith slips out of the car and slams the door shut, tossing the keys in his hand as his flippers slap against the foyer floor.

What should he do today? He hums shortly, pushing the door open and lets the cool air from the house sweep the humidity off his skin. He could take a nap, since his chance to have a shut eye is lost when he decides to wrestle with his friends in the pool. He can still feel Pidge’s legs squeezing his neck as they play chicken with Lance and Allura, whooping in victory when both of his friends fall down with a satisfying splash that has Hunk laughing loudly.

Or he could play a piece. Keith slows down beside the piano, swiping a hand over the cover. The piano’s getting dusty from how he’s been neglected it, its keys begging to be pressed.

As lovely as it is to have a nap after exerting a lot of energy earlier that day, the thought of waking up sweaty and sticky doesn’t appeal him just yet, and some music would be good. Just for a moment, especially when the leftover buzz from the morning still exists faintly on the slope of his shoulders.

Keith lets his backpack fall to the floor, near the foot of the bench. He slides onto it while pushing the cover up, and the sight of the keys makes a deep part of his chest twinge, waking up the mournful longing that comes with it.

Heath used to play with him, Krolia as well, when it’s just the three of them in this too big house with too many old things that are still well kept occupying most rooms. The piano has been part of this house when they first bought it, along with the cabinet under the stairs, all the wardrobes in every room, the squeaky pipes that needed changing at first because one burst at the top floor. Even the mirrors are quick to put down, since hardly anything reflects from the surface whenever anyone decides to look into the black splotches.

They’ve refurbished every room, bringing in their own belongings from the apartment they’ve rented in the beginning. Keith hasn’t even been born then to have a taste of living there, destined into a world where it’s almost a daily occurrence to see anything relic in this house, but he has seen pictures of the apartment his parents once stayed. It’s definitely not as large as the bungalow, but both of them look happy in the picture from where they’re sitting on the old couch, Krolia holding onto the small bump of her stomach.

She’s once told him that it was good that they’ve moved before she had gotten bigger, because their floor has been at the eighth and the lift has its frequent problems of breaking down. She swears she’ll just bunk in someone’s home on the lower floors if it means to avoid using those stairs.

Keith remembers laughing then, before she nudges him gently towards the piano to repeat the same sequence she just showed him. He does, and his six-year-old self can’t be more happier to see the proud shine of her eyes once he’s finished.

He misses her.

He lets the tips of his fingers sail across the keys in front of him, getting familiarise with the smooth texture again, before he positions himself with both hands hovering just above it, expectant.

And then, he presses into them like he hasn’t been apart from their company, letting the song escape past the bars he’s trapped himself into with a beat that’s supposed to shake off worries of the past. He plays, lets his fingers jump across one after another, exclaiming and reprimanding, and then quickly change its tempo into something softer, memorable, and let the sound drag on.

It’s good he’s doing it like this, because the room seems to wake the house up from its doze, where it’s suddenly alight and breathing and blinking the drowsiness awake. The sun greets his attempts through the windows, reaching for him with an opened palm, delighted and amused, and enhances his play with the day.

He’s enjoying himself, feeling a smile take its residence on his lips as he watch his fingers move with languid ease. Heath would be thrilled to see him playing again.

He doesn’t know how long he’s been at it but it’s somewhere at the end of the piece when he notices he’s not alone. Keith lifts his head up, and sees Shiro leaning against the doorframe with a smile of his own, pencil in hand.

Shiro leaves the top part of his shirt open, his cleavage bare, the lone brown button mocking him from where it’s settled against the white cloth. Keith knows it’s hot outside, it’s basically a need to ease the relief, but it still makes him want to yank Shiro forward and button that shirt up himself.

A total violation of space, he knows. Which is why Keith would kick himself off the planet before anyone could catch him.

He finishes off the piece with a little force to his touch more than possible, and lets the aftermath of the song drift within the space around him.

“Debussy, right?” Shiro asks, stepping inside with the pencil still between his fingers, twirling it around as he stands just beside Keith.

“Yeah.” Keith lets his hands hover above the keys again, already thinking of another song.

“Why’d you merge them together, though?”

He snaps his head up, meeting the curious look Shiro dons. “What?”

“You did,” Shiro says, as if Keith denies his question even if he hasn’t said anything. “You put in Golliwogg’s Cakewalk and Estampes together. It’s more former than the latter, and some people probably wouldn’t notice you squeezing in some Emtampes in between Cakewalk, but it’s there.”

Keith discreetly bites the tip of his tongue. “I’m guessing you’re not one of those people.”

Shiro smiles, and it’s oddly funny in a sense that he knows he’s making himself sound far more clever just because he picks out the little changes Keith does to some pieces. It makes Shiro look so pleased with himself that Keith wants to laugh at his face.

Instead, he turns back to the keys. And then, he plays it again.

It’s easy, it’s having water run through his hands by now, and the blend of notes comes seamlessly without any bumps.

“There, see,” Shiro says, pencil pointed towards his hands just as Keith’s down midway, before he stops. “Why do you keep doing that?”

“It’s fun,” Keith answers, and Shiro lets his eyebrows quirk up. It’s fair, no one in their right mind would bring up that kind of response when asked why they’re mashing up two songs of Claude Debussy’s into one hybrid of a piece that would make him roll over his grave. “At least, sometimes.”

“You mix up two completely different things together because it’s fun?” Shiro asks with faint disbelief.

“Once you know the original sequence at the back of your hand, why not?” Keith shoots back.

Shiro pauses, looking at Keith as if he’s realising something he crossed, before he puts the pencil behind his ear.

“Can you mix Beethoven, though?”

Anything that’s under Beethoven’s name is a menace and Keith never did like playing any of his works. No way in hell is he going to touch any of his songs again just so he could amuse Shiro.

He enforces that by maintaining eye contact with the man, hands already above the keys. A spark of wariness consumes some part of that face, suspicious at the sudden intensity of Keith’s expression that makes Shiro slowly straighten his back. Keith internally smirks, before bringing his hands down.

The first tune bursting under the strike of his fingers has Shiro’s eyes widen in surprise, before he lets out a bark of laughter while Keith continues to play the rest of the song.

“You’re right, Beethoven would’ve appreciate _Wham!_ ,” Shiro says, chuckling breathlessly. “Especially this.”

Keith only continues playing, nodding his head to match the beat as Shiro slides onto the bench beside him. Keith notices the way his fingers twitch on his lap, and heard the way he hums the song underneath his breath.

“Do you play?” Keith asks, fingers still moving. Shiro shrugs, massive shoulders jerking up in a way that would’ve make him look adorable.

“Not the piano, and not as much as I used to, but the guitar was my best friend before, you know,”

Shiro waggles the stump at his way, causing the loose knot of his sleeve to jump up and down with the gesture, and giving Keith permission to stare at it properly after all those times where he’s been stealing glances at it when Shiro’s not looking.

The music drifts off as Keith watches the way Shiro tightens the sleeve, making sure it stays in place with his stump and not let it fly around. “Ever since I started high school, my friends and I had this band going on where we’d practice almost every day in a garage,” Shiro continues. He runs his thumb over his sleeve, a small smile peeking through when he picks his head up. “We’d take turns on whose garage we had to use, because it’d be fair by then and our parents wouldn’t threaten to ban our music.”

Keith could imagine a younger Shiro, having both his arms on his instrument, scarless, and just having a blast in some poor parents’ garage with a group of other young people.

“Was the white hair your trademark?” Keith asks, and Shiro consciously runs his fingers through it, something like a grimace disguised as a smile apparent enough for Keith to pick out.

“Nah, this came later.” Strange, Keith muses quietly, but stress could make him have premature hair. It’s a reasonable deduction, after everything he’s gone through; Keith has seen pictures of other people facing the same problem when they’re only in their late twenties.

He stops himself from rolling with the thought of Young Shiro buying hair dye at the nearest convenience store and plucking out white among all the bright colours for the sake of an identity. Keith supposed when you’re in a band, it’s important to stand out among your friends, or you’ll just blend in and no one would know you exist.

“Too bad, any bands who have a thing for hairdos would’ve welcome you,” he says, pointedly arching his brows towards the pale forelock hanging on his forehead. “It’s not too late.”

Shiro lets one corner of his mouth reach up with mild hilarity. “I don’t think there are any empty spots available now.”

“Never hurt to ask,” Keith replies easily, shrugging a bit.

 _His hair looks like its shining_ , Keith thinks idly, staring at how the sun has already reached the black piano with its touch, reflecting on the shiny surface in a way that could blind someone when standing at a wrong angle. But, as if Aphrodite herself has make herself present, to groom a son she’s left, the silver in Shiro’s hair does actually look like its glowing, littered with accessories no one can see, shining and alight. _Like starlight_.

It’s impossible, of course. The old gods could be living within the human world and would never bless their people with such power anymore. They would’ve be in a disguise, wearing coats and boots and driving cars like the rest of the mortals; they could be forgotten, set aside, either happy or miserable in being abandoned; they would be living somewhere where no one could disturb them, alone or with other gods, reachable or a long way from where the human touch doesn’t exist anymore.

 _Or_ , somewhere in the back of his head that sounds suspiciously like Allura intervenes, _he soaked his head in bathtub full of glitter to make himself look pretty. Not everything is Ancient Greek._

The thought makes Keith look down to the keys, realising how he’s been intently observing the man beside him, embarrassment hanging low in his chest while his cheeks are on the verge of exploding down his neck.

He doesn’t know where he’s going with this. But, the chance of getting asked on what he’s doing then would be high, since Shiro’s been patiently letting him soak in whatever information Keith needs to know by look alone. He sits there, one hand curled on his thigh, two feet flat on the floor, eyes only Keith. Shiro lets himself be bare and yet guarded for curiosity sake, like offering a new fruit to a child, where he waits for a reaction after he has a taste.

It’s almost unrefined. Keith realises he would’ve been patronised if he allows it.

That, of course, won’t do.

Keith leans to the side to grab the backpack he’s thrown down by his feet, standing up with a hurry that would’ve made him trip if he hasn’t noticed the way his foot hooks onto the leg of the bench. He steps to the side, slips the bag on his shoulder, and walks out to leave.

“Keith.”

A clash of rage and humilation collides underneath his sternum, and there’s no stopping how Keith whirls around to see Shiro still in his spot, half of his body turned to face him.

There’s nothing tentative about that gaze when Keith meets it with a purse of his lips; he’s careful, but he’s honest in a way Keith rarely sees in other people, as if Shiro really does want Keith to warm up to him even after all the avoidance Keith establishes in the first week. Shiro indulges him for the whole time, until now.

This is an opening, and Keith just walks straight into it when he’s been too busy ogling.

“You can talk to me,” Shiro continues, and his voice is soothing, almost concerned as he takes the pencil down.

“We do talk,” Keith replies, and it’s underlined with annoyance, causing him to heft his bag nearer to his neck with a jerk of a movement. “We just did.”

“It shouldn’t be like that,” Shiro says.

Keith lets his tongue push against the bottom row of his teeth, contemplative on wanting an answer. “Like what?”

“Like I’m trying to hurt you any second,” Shiro tells him to the point. Keith tries not to shuffle in place under his heavy stare. “Like you’re tiptoeing around me every time we’re in the same room.”

“I wasn’t.”

Shiro doesn’t look sad, but it’s close. And Keith wants to hate it, wants to hate him. “You are.”

It’s ridiculous, Keith thinks. It’s ridiculous that someone he just met would look genuinely affected that he’s noticing Keith being careful around him. This is just the way he is, this is how handles himself when he’s being pushed into meeting new people.

And it shouldn’t affect Keith that Shiro looks as if he just kicked his puppy and sent it flying out of the window.

Keith tightens on his hold on the strap of his backpack, looking away with a soft sigh escaping through his nose. “No, I’m not. Just,”

He stops himself, gently biting into his bottom lip. And then, when he looks back up to Shiro, he’s still waiting for him to continue the sentence.

And Shiro’s wearing this hopeful expression that makes Keith feel bad.

“I’ll talk to you later,” he mutters, turning around again to escape into the kitchen.

He goes over to the fridge and pulls the door open to grab a bottle of lemonade, accidentally slamming it back with a little too much force as he basically turns tail towards the stairs. He stops himself from clambering up like a herd of cows, and instead focuses on popping open the bottle before he takes a large swing of his drink.

He begins licking his wounds in shame the moment his bedroom door shuts closed.

 

* * *

 

 Guilt, Keith finds out, is a mean son of a bitch that beats you up in some back alley every time you stumble in its path.

It keeps him up at night, and whenever he tries to expel that feeling, it doesn’t work, how he’s used pages after pages of his sketchbook to draw it out and let the soothing scratch of the tip of his pen drag around the surface of the paper. It isn’t long before the bold and rough lines of his strokes occupy more of his book, filling it with half-hearted drawings that he would hate in the morning.

He tries fresh air by opening the windows, letting the cool breeze and the smell of the night sweep in before plopping back on his chair, picking up his pen again with a huff of exasperation.

He does two weak drawings of a cat, stares at how one eye is rounder than the other, and gives up, reaching forward to switch off his lamp and hunches further down his chair with his hands tucked under his armpits.

Keith doesn’t know how he’s going to fix this. He basically turned tail when Shiro confronted him about his need to avoid him, and he’s been so upset about it that Keith’s caught off guard. This shouldn’t doesn’t happen. Most people who come over for the summer don’t even give him a second glance unless they’re looking for his dad or asking for directions around town until they’re familiar with it on their own. There have been some people that Keith would have considered as simple camaraderie, but none of them actually said anything like what Shiro had.

What makes Keith angry is how affected he is by it, by the puppy eyes and soften voice, by Shiro himself.

Blowing a raspberry, he pushes himself off the chair with a spring in his step.

Nothing feels right then. Invisible ants crawl frantically underneath his skin as he paces around his room barefooted, shoving his hair away from his forehead and clutching the strands with his fingers. Nothing’s going like they should be, where the status quo for the summer has tilted so far out of range that he’s scrambling to catch the falling pieces. It’s slipping through his fingers, and he feels like screaming as he watches them fall into horse shit.

This summer is supposed to be like every other summer Keith has known for his life. He’s embedded the technicalities of it deep within his bones so that he knows how the days should be working, a continuous loop of familiarity in his life. If anything’s not following what list his mind has created, then it’s time he fixes it or he’ll start to panic and lose his mind in the process.

He’ll have to be his own damage control. If anyone else tries to help him, he’ll start sinking further into the dark hole he wants to avoid.

His eyes catches the Reese’s cups he’s brought up after dinner. He goes around his bed and plucks one for himself, unwrapping the foil.

He’s on the verge of reciting Lewis Carroll’s book of Alice’s first encounter with the Mad Hatter and the March Hare, because his brain likes to spit out irrelevant things when he’s like this and there’s almost no way to stop it.

It’s when he’s shoved the whole cup into his mouth did he hear the sound of a car rumbling nearer. Keith chews, balling the wrapper in one hand as he nears himself towards the window.

Shiro’s talking to Matt. Their voices are audible enough for Keith to hear from his bedroom, but far too faint that he has to strain his ears.

“Need any help?” Matt asks, an elbow out as he peers at Shiro from the window.

“Nope, I got it,” comes the answer, and Shiro’s taking Keith’s bike off the back of Matt’s car with only an arm, careful in setting it on the ground. “Thanks again for the ride.”

“Well, you treated us the beer, yeah?” Matt says, mischievous. “And no problem.”

“The only reason you got free beer is because all of you ganged up on me on poker,” Shiro points out, causing Matt to let out a chuckle. “I’m usually good at this. Tonight just wasn’t my night.”

“Hey, you can regain your honour later,” Matt suggests lightly. Shiro probably rolls his eyes in response that makes Matt chuckle again. “No, really, you can. But, we promise to take it easy on you next time so that you don’t lose.”

“Hah, sure. I’m gonna kick your ass either way.” Shiro waves at him. “See you, Matt.”

“Night, Shiro.”

Keith makes sure he stays hidden by the side of the window as he watches Matt drive off, before he has his eyes on Shiro and sees how the man lets the bike lean against the wall of the house. Shiro swipes a hand down the side of his face, and disappears through the front door.

Keith doesn’t want Shiro to know he’s still awake, spying him from his room when he hasn’t been talking to him since earlier that day. It doesn’t take long for him to throw the wrapper he’s been holding onto in the trash can under the table, before he’s tiptoeing to his bed as the sound of Shiro coming up the stairs becomes steadily louder.

He quickly slips under his covers and doesn’t move, hearing the way his own breathing comes out heavily into his quiet room while Shiro goes into his. There’s a muted sound of footsteps next door, and Keith carefully listens to the way Shiro pushes open his own windows, their hinges creaking from age.

There’s a scratch, and Keith‘s starting to wonder what it is before the unmistakable smell of nicotine wafts under his nose, causing him to wrinkle it in mild disgust.

 _Shirogane, are you that eager to die?_ Keith has the urge to get up and close his windows, but his pride is more important now. At this point, he’d rather die in cigarette smoke than face Shiro again for the day.

With the aftertaste of Reese’s still stuck on his tongue, Keith pulls his covers over the top of his head and tries to sleep.

The next day, Keith’s sprawled on his favourite chair watching some old shows with his legs hooked over the armrest, and at that time, he remembers he hasn’t asked Shiro about the McClain’s barbecue party. The only time he does realise this is when Heath asks him to go.

“You should come,” Heath continues from his place on the sofa, with Shiro’s sitting on the other end as he looks over what papers he has sprawled between them. “There’s great food, fantastic company. It’ll be fun.”

“They’re okay with me tagging along?” Shiro seems worried then, straightening up his back from where he’s been hunching over his work. “I don’t mind not going.”

“After I asked, Mrs. McClain seems alright with it,” Heath says, smiling reassuringly. “In fact, they’re expecting it. It’s normal for me to bring extra company to their party, at this point. They like meeting new people.”

Keith knows his friends are going to make fun of him for not asking Shiro first. They’re going to boo at him, and do whatever atrocities friends do to embarrass him the moment they see his face.

That is, of course, if they ever find out how he failed to do his deed.

He glances at Shiro and sees how he contemplates the offer, pen rolling between his fingers. “Do I need to bring anything?”

“Well, Keith and I usually bring over our apple pies, so you can help us with that later.” Heath catches Keith’s eye. “Or we can always make peach pies this time. What do you think?”

“You’re not letting Shiro taste your famous apple pie?” Keith asks, a smile peeking through.

“My peach pies are good too, just so you know,” Heath says, laughing. “Especially when you get a scoop of triple vanilla ice cream on top.”

“Now, you’re making me hungry,” Keith jokes, feeling the force of Shiro’s look drilling on the side of his head as he steadily ignores it. He shifts in his position, bringing down his legs as they fold nearer towards his body. “Apple pie, dad. You promised them that.”

“True,” Heath hums, thinking. Then, he looks toward Shiro again, who meets his gaze with a snap. “It’s on friday, by the way. And it’s a dinner barbecue, so you’ll sleep like a log after stuffin’ yourself nuts with some grilled meat, sausages, and other good things that’d make you pass out faster.”

“That does sound heavenly,” Shiro admits, laughing a little as he shuffles his papers. “I’m looking forward to it.”

Keith doesn’t trust himself to look at him longer than he should, and focuses on the screen in front of him, forcing himself to listen to whatever line the man in the television says that makes laughter erupt from it.

But, there’s no stopping how he steals another glance at Shiro —whether wanting to know what Shiro is feeling or because Keith realises how crowded his chest feels and how he wants to get rid of it— only to see him writing on his papers again.

Keith holds his tongue and turns away.

 

* * *

 

“What the fuck, Keith.”

“It’s in the past, Lance.” Keith doesn’t look up from where he has his eyes on the crowd, where they’re dancing in the front yard of McClain’s residence with music blasting somewhere near. There are fairy lights hanging around, most likely from the work of the smallest members of the family, with some balloons tied behind every chair. “Let it go.”

“You had one job,” Lance barrels on instead, holding onto a paper plate of apple pie with a hand, spoon in the other as he aims it towards Keith’s way. “One job. _You_ ask Shiro to come to my family’s party, not your dad.”

“He’s here,” Keith says, arching his eyebrows at him. “Mission accomplished. I don’t know why you’re still upset.”

“I’m _not_ upset. You’re missing the point.”

“Yeah?” Keith asks wryly, taking a sip of his drink. “And what’s that?”

“That you’re supposed to _bond_ with him over this.” Lance would have thrown his arms above his head if he hasn’t been holding onto his plate. Instead, he stabs the pie with his spoon and shoves some into his mouth. “You guys were cold when you came here. Like you had a fight or something.”

“We didn’t have a fight.”

“A misunderstanding, then,” Pidge says from his other side. She has a plate of pie of her own, half-way finished. “A fallout? Because you were basically itching to get out of his hair.”

“There was no misunderstanding or fallout,” Keith sighs, standing up. “Look, you guys, there’s nothing wrong between us. It’s just that my dad beat me to it.”

“You could’ve been faster.” Lance says, adamant.

He could’ve, if he wasn’t too busy trying to avoid Shiro for the past few days after the dreaded mistake.

“No, I really couldn’t.” Keith sets his cup on the chair. “I’m getting some pie.”

When he gets to the food table, the second pie is already out, a quarter of it gone. He takes the knife and cuts a piece for himself, before he notices Hunk standing beside him with an empty paper plate and spoon of his own.

“So, that’s your man? The one you’re hiding from us?” Hunk says as a greeting, gesturing towards the dancing crowd with a lift of his chin.

“He’s not my man,” Keith says immediately, but he follows Hunk’s gaze, seeing the way Shiro is dancing with Lance’s nephew and niece, both kids holding onto his hand as they sway and laugh together. Keith sets the cake onto his plate before he cuts another for Hunk. “And I wasn’t hiding him from any of you.”

“Beg to differ,” Hunk replies, holding out his plate.

Keith holds onto his eyes when he drops the slice onto it. “Then, beg.”

Hunk laughs. “I spoke to the guy earlier, and he’s not as horrible as you make it seem. He’s actually quite nice.”

“I didn’t say he was horrible, I just said he was _eh._ ” Keith starts eating the pie right then, eyeing a mini red velvet cupcake Mrs. Garrett brought from her café. “Stop putting words in my mouth. Not you, Hunk.”

“The way you described him at the pool the other day was as if he committed a national crime or something,” Hunk says and digs in as well. “So, we went investigating—“

“Investigating.” Keith echoes, suddenly feeling helpless.

“—and we found out he’s a good guy. He hasn’t been in jail in his entire life, he lived with his parents before he moved to an apartment on his own, and he forked out his own money to apply himself into a university.”

“Why do you know all of this?”

“Pidge helped.” Keith doesn’t even want to imagine what kind of help that is. “And Lance thinks we need to properly know the next guy you’re gonna kiss later.”

Keith almost chokes on a piece of apple, regretting on the fact that his cup isn’t with him. “Since when is this about _kissing?_ ”

“Since you showed interest in him?” Hunk gives him a look. “Everytime you like someone, you’re willing to talk about them more. So, we figured you’re interested in this guy more than you let on.”

“No?” Keith hopes he doesn’t look as red as he feels, because whatever Hunk is saying is in public, where there’s a chance of anyone, especially close friends, to listen in. The thought of anyone getting the wrong idea makes Keith twitchy. “I don’t?”

“Subconsciously?”

“No, Hunk.”

“Uh-huh,” Hunk sceptically replies, eyeing him.

Keith straightens his posture to appear firm. “ _No_ , Hunk.”

“Sure, bud.” Hunk gives him a small salute with his spoon, before he turns around and leaves Keith alone by the food table while Hunk makes his way towards their friends.

Keith blinks, and then he lets out a sigh as he reaches out to take a mini cupcake, before someone else takes Hunk’s place.

It’s Shiro, and Keith almost stiffens at his appearance before he pushes himself to get the cupcake he’s been wanting to eat since he got there. He’s not depriving himself off good food just because his flight instincts got activated.

“Hey,” Shiro greets, taking a plate for himself and squeezes it on the small empty space of the table. “I haven’t had the chance for dessert before I was pulled out there. Is everything as good as they look?”

Keith knows he’s going for light talk, as if he’s testing the waters by dipping a toe in. Keith sets the mini cupcake beside his half-eaten pie. “The finest.”

Shiro hums thoughtfully, already cutting some pie for himself, before he’s balancing a piece on the flat side of the blade that Keith can’t help but stare at it too, body tense from where he’s ready to grab Shiro’s plate in case any accidents happen. The pie lands cleanly on its required place, and then Shiro’s putting back the knife.

“I’m sorry,” he begins, meeting his eyes that Keith has to prevent himself from wrenching away from his look. “For that day, by the piano.”

Keith doesn’t speak, unable to from how his mouth is left opened as words are lost to him then.

“I made it sound as if I was demanding something from you when that wasn’t my intention,” Shiro continues, voice soft enough for only them to hear. If anyone wants to know what they’re talking about, they’d have to stand right beside them. “I was just worried if I’ve done anything wrong that made you uncomfortable with me in the beginning, so I thought I’d just ask you and,”

He pauses, watching for Keith’s reaction that he can’t do anything but stare back, heart beating in his ears. Then, Shiro winces. “I’m doing it again, huh?”

Keith doesn’t know how to answer to that. He doesn’t know what to do anything now.

Shiro takes his plate in hand. “I’ll just leave you alone for now,” he says, an apology of its own, already stepping away.

“No, wait—“ Keith starts to panic then, hand shooting forward to grab his elbow that would’ve make Shiro drop his pie, but Keith can’t spare it a thought. Shiro blinks back at him, clearly surprised, but stays still.

Keith wets his dry lips, staring at his hand before he unlatches it from him, curling his fingers into his palm as he presses it to his side. “You’re not doing anything wrong,” he starts, feeling as if he’s about to jump out of his skin. “I’m just,” he hesitates, before he takes a deep breath. “I’m just a bit startled by you.”

The end of his sentence almost comes out as a question, and Keith tries not to lift his shoulders to his ears out of defense.

“Oh,” Shiro says, and Keith doesn’t know how to answer to that but shift his weight to one foot. Shiro’s quiet for a while, and somehow, that’s worse. “Is it because of the arm?”

“No, no,” Keith quickly responds, shaking his head. “It’s not because of your arm—“

“Excuse me.”

It’s Veronica, and she’s looking at them curiously with her plate in hand. Both he and Shiro mutter their apologies as they step away from the food table and instead stand beside it.

“You’re not making me uncomfortable in anyway,” Keith continues, and Shiro nods. Keith takes the encouragement and says, “that’s it.”

“Are you sure?” Shiro presses.

“Yeah, I’m sure.”

Shiro stays quiet for another second, eyes solely on him that Keith makes sure to stay perfectly still. “We’re cool, then?”

Keith lets out a breath, nodding slowly as he lets his shoulders relax, head dropping down. “Yeah,” he says. “We’re cool.”

When he looks back up, Shiro has one corner of his mouth lifted up, and Keith tries not to flush under the attention as he purses his lips, staring at his pie.

“Okay.” Shiro says, and it’s simple, it’s _cool_. But, everything is the way it should be and Keith can’t be more glad to have that weight be lifted off his shoulders.

Shiro let out a small laugh as he shakes his head, clearly relieved as he is. “That was a mess.”

“It was,” Keith agrees, but he offers a mini smile of his own that Shiro answers just as kind. With the same hand holding onto his plate of pie, Shiro taps Keith on the shoulder with his wrist.

“Enjoy the party,” Shiro says, and gives him one last smile before he disappears through the crowd, leaving Keith to stand there as he watches him go.

But then, he sees Shiro emerges at the end of the yard to sit with Matt, Sam, and Heath, where they greet him with grins and pull a chair for him to sit.

Keith briefly bites the inside of his cheek, before he uses his spoon to poke into his pie and take a huge bite, walking towards where his friends are waiting.

When he sees their faces, he groans loudly.

“Not a word,” he warns through a mouthful. Allura has joined their group when he’s away, and she gives him a grin as he moves his cup and sits on his chair.

“You guys kiss and made up?” Pidge asks gleefully, leaning into his space.

He flips them all off, causing his friends to laugh loudly in his face.


End file.
